


First Defeat

by dhampir72



Series: Transformations [2]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Shapeshifters, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Shapeshifting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-03
Updated: 2017-10-14
Packaged: 2019-01-08 10:18:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12252369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dhampir72/pseuds/dhampir72
Summary: Bond discovers that Q has secrets of his own.(Continuing from the prompt anon prompt: Shapeshifter AU - James has an unusual/multiple shifts.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to my BETA, [actual--quartermaster](http://actual--quartermaster.tumblr.com/) who helped me clean up this monstrosity into something readable. You are an angel from heaven bless you for your patience with me

_It's the first defeat_  
_It cuts you to your bones_  
_Knocks you off your feet_  
_And you discover that home_  
_Is not a person or a place_  
_But a feeling you can't get back_  
_First Defeat_ by Noah Gundersen

**00Q00Q00Q**

It was strange how nothing seemed to change.

With Q privy to his secret, Bond thought there would have to be some sort of overt change in their dynamic, but the moment they were both back at Six, it was as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Q continued to call him Double-Oh Seven and give him equipment to kill people in far-away locales. They still bantered and bickered in person and over the comms, their borderline unprofessionalism toeing the line as it always had. And his Quartermaster remained the person to dress him down for losing equipment, but also to reward Bond for a job-well done with new gadgets: a poison dart tie pin, a garrote that masqueraded as a shoelace, another set of cuff link grenades.

So nothing had changed, yet, everything had.

There had always been a degree of trust between them, but this was something more.

It was as subtle as the way Q would look at him, softer a bit around the eyes and mouth, even when Bond had done something wrong. Fondness had always been there--after all, Bond knew that he was the favourite, even if Q claimed to not have favourite agents--even in the anger, but it was nuanced now, a degree warmer, perhaps, now that Q knew him so intimately. It should have made Bond nervous enough to run far away in the other direction, because good things like Q didn’t happen to people like Bond without consequences. But then Q would look at him like he did after Bond returned from a mission--like he was relieved, like he was _happy_ \--and it made Bond push all of his doubts to the back of his mind.

Q had become comfort and home after a long time away; he was safety and warmth after being chased down by terrorists and guns for hire. He was, well.

_Pack._

It was startling to think, not even a few months ago, how adamant Bond had been about never having packmates, and now he’d fallen into this thing with Q so unexpectedly and it was so _good_ that Bond didn’t think he could give it up. Then he’d berate his selfishness and tell himself he was never going to come back to Q’s flat again, but then he’d be everywhere but there and want to be nowhere but _home_.

Sometimes, he’d show up on Q’s doorstep: human and smirking and maybe even a little damaged, begging a shower or a meal before he’d Shift to get in as much petting as possible. Other times, he’d end up on Q’s back porch, banging on the window with his paws, meowing his head off to be let inside. One time, he tucked himself into Q’s bag at work so that Q had to carry him home on the tube (never again, as Q had subjected him to Mrs. Gierlowski’s facial kisses in exchange for some--albeit delicious--paczki). On another occasion, he let himself into Q’s flat by picking the lock and was already waiting on Q’s clean laundry pile when he arrived back from Six.

Bond didn’t want to call it a habit (because he associated habits with all of the addictions in his life: alcohol, adrenaline, and sex) but as time went on, he didn’t think there was any other word for it. Less and less was he returning to London to drink himself unconscious in his barren flat or at the bars looking for someone with whom he could pass the time. Instead, he’d begun making a habit of begging dinner off Q--who started keeping more than just canned tuna in the house, sometimes even cooking chicken or beef for him!--before spending the rest of the night relaxing in his Other form, sprawling himself all over the sofa or counter or coffee table until Q picked him up and put him on his lap.

Sometimes Q would watch telly or work on something on his computer, and Bond would have to roll over a few times on his lap to remind him that he had a job (petting) and he wasn’t always doing a good job of it.

“So needy,” Q would say, and then indulge him.

(Hands down, Q gave the best under-chin scratches.)

Actually, when Bond thought about it, Q indulged him quite often, even borderline spoiling him at times. Bond wasn’t about to argue, but it was...

Well.

Nice.

Of course, they never talked about any of it.

That’s not to say there wasn’t plenty of opportunity to do so along the way.

At the start of things, Bond would let himself out before Q woke, leaving gifts of croissants or sweets on the counter as silent _thank you_ for his companionship, circumventing the inevitable awkward conversation of What This Thing Between Them Was Exactly like any upstanding Brit. But then Q would be stiff with him for days; not cruel, but offering very little of that warmness Bond had started to enjoy so much. He’d only soften up when Bond came back from missions, rough round the edges and in need of care, and then the entire cycle would start over again.

It took Bond only a few occasions of this to put two and two together: maybe he wasn’t the only one thinking _pack_? Maybe his leaving had been giving Q the wrong impression, that Bond didn’t care for him outside of his own needs?

That would have been the ideal time to talk to Q about it, but the thought of having that conversation made Bond anxious. The fear of rejection was too great, this wonderful thing they had still too new and fragile to be giving it a label that might possibly be Entirely Wrong Because He Misread It Entirely.

So instead of talking, Bond decided to act instead.

He started small: bringing tea and sandwiches again (or other meals when Q’s workday ran into the odd hours of the day at night), not caring about all the whispers and speculations that followed the display. He left presents for Q on his workstation for all of the branch to see: brightly coloured packages from his travels filled with chocolates and teas. He even started bringing his tech back (as much as he possibly could, anyway). He could practically smell the office betting pools on if Bond was courting Q and, if so, how long it would take for Q to succumb to his charms.

It was all very well and good, and Q was less cold to him for all of these affections, but Bond could still feel a rift between them all the same.

So.

He started to stay for breakfast. The first few times were awkward, because Bond felt like he was intruding as a human, what with having Q treat him like a guest and play host to him, cooking breakfast and always looking embarrassed when Bond forgot to _not_ ask where the coffee maker was.

But it seemed that Q liked having him there, and over time, breakfast at Q’s became something that Bond began looking forward to. It became comfortable, routine: Q cooking (he made a mean omelette that Bond had a constant craving for), Bond catching up on the news (sound all the way down, closed captions on because he couldn’t for the life of him deal with the voice of the shitshow the Americans had for a president) or office gossip (or, as Q called it: What Blew Up No Thanks To You While You Were Gone).

Sometimes they talked, sometimes they didn’t, sometimes a little bit of both. It was such a change of pace to be in the company of another person with whom he could occupy the same space without having to fill it with chatter.

The rift between them seemed to ease with every breakfast they shared. Q even bought a French press to keep at his flat for Bond, but neither of them really said anything about it or what it meant. Instead, Bond pointedly looked for any other topic of conversation that morning and asked if Q ever wanted to switch up cooking duties sometime.

“It’s not fair that you’re the one always cooking,” Bond pointed out.

“It’s nice cooking for other people,” Q had said with a shrug, “but if you want to have a go at it next time, I like my eggs over-easy. Also, we’re out of strawberry jam, so that’ll be your responsibility.”

Bond was still trying to coming to terms with all of this when Moneypenny slipped into the lift with him one day at Six. He was on his way to Q-Branch before his debrief with Mallory, having just returned from a short stop-over mission in France. It had been dreadfully boring, but he had returned with in-tact equipment and a small red bag with a matching bow. He did not miss how Moneypenny’s eyes flicked down to glance at it before returning to his face.

“Moneypenny,” he greeted.

“Bond.”

She had that cat-that-ate-the-canary sort of look to her.

(And Bond would know, having eaten several canaries before).

“I thought you weren’t propositioning him.”

“I’m not propositioning him.”

“Oh,” she said, and peeked into the bag, “that’s strange because I never pegged you for the type to enjoy strawberry marmalade.”

“I’m a man of many tastes.”

“That you are.”

She was all grins.

“You two smell like each other all the time,” she said, when he didn’t rise to her bait.

“Best way not to smell anything is to keep your nose out of it,” Bond reminded her.

“I’m happy for you, Bond,” Eve said, and the way she smiled instead of grinned told him that she _was_ happy.

In fact, she wasn’t the only one. The rumour mills were back in fully working order, but with less suspicion and more...interest. Now, no one was preoccupied with his Other form anymore. Instead, they were too busy trying to figure out the new situation between Bond and the Quartermaster.

It put a spring back in Bond’s step to be the positive centre of attention again. He maybe even encouraged some of the rumours himself when he came to visit Q in branch: standing too close to be professional, leaning over Q’s shoulder or chair when he was working, bringing his gifts of tea and anything-but-pumpernickel-and-cucumber sandwiches.

Of course, he also did those things because he wanted to, because it could get Q to pay attention to him, maybe give him an exasperated look that Bond knew was fond and not angry. But it also gave him a rush of pride when he saw an empty mug or dish next to Q, because he had offered care and Q had accepted it. His animal mind was ever more present in these moments, asserting that they were pack and pack felt _good_.

But then the human part of him would wonder: how long would it last?

All good things came to an end, especially when Bond was involved. There had been sweet summer beaches with Vesper and rainy London nights drinking scotch and talking shit with M. And there had been others--so many others--whose names and faces blended together after too many years of doing the work that got people like that killed.

And now there was Q, who could be hard enough to shut Bond down on his bullshit and cold and calculated enough to kill people across the globe with a press of his finger, but also very soft and sweet at night, just the two of them in the dark, with the sheets smelling like tea and gunpowder and mint. They could fill hours with talk or nothing at all, and there was nothing ever lost from it, only gained. The more time that Bond spent with him, the more he realised how much time he never wanted to spend without him.

But all it would take was one moment and then--

“You’re thinking too loudly, Bond.”

Bond looked up from the pile of paperwork he’d been flipping idly through in a failed effort to keep his thoughts from spiraling.

It was an early Wednesday evening and he’d just returned from his debriefing with Mallory, which had nearly bored him to tears as much as the stop-over in France. He was restless and anxious from having too much down time to think about things and the only soothing place he could think to be was by Q’s side. After ten days away and with little-to-no-contact with Q--who had been occupied with some mess in the Middle East for the past week--Bond wanted nothing more than to Shift and spend the evening on Q’s lap, being doted upon.

But his Quartermaster apparently had other plans, busy working on something or another in a focused manner that told Bond he had no intent on finishing any time soon. Bond went back to irritably flipping through folders and papers, making as much noise as possible. If Q wouldn’t pay attention to him willingly, then Bond would annoy him into paying attention.

And it worked, because Q looked up with a sigh and focused his attention on Bond.

“You know, you could do your paperwork instead of playing with it.”

Bond made a distasteful face, snapping a binder clip with disinterest.

“If you’re going to have a sulk, do it somewhere else, I’m busy,” Q said, going back to his computer.

“Not sulking,” Bond replied.

“Definitely sulking.”

“Thinking.”

“Dangerous. You ought to leave that to the professionals.”

Bond sprung up and came round to Q’s side of the desk. Q didn’t react to him, even when he came close, close enough to feel the heat of Q through his layers of cotton and wool.

“Do you want to know what I was thinking about?” Bond asked.

“Not particularly, but I presume that you’re going to tell me,” Q said.

“I was thinking about what I want to do to this ugly thing,” Bond said, pinching at the uncomfortable looking fabric of Q’s cardigan.

He wrinkled his nose in distaste. It was incredibly scratchy.

“I was debating between taking a blowtorch to it or just drowning it in the Thames to put it out of its misery.”

Q swatted his hand away, attention never leaving his screen.

“If you wouldn’t have thoroughly _ruined_ my wardrobe--”

“Trust me, that so-called wardrobe of yours is much better in a landfill. Where do you even find these atrocious things?”

“Don’t you have somewhere else to be?”

Bond leaned further into Q’s personal space. He smelled like the MI6-brand shampoo instead of his usual mint, telling Bond had hadn’t been home in probably a day or two. His clothes, however, were clean, and had the scent of Q’s laundry detergent, though the brightness had somewhat dimmed, probably from the clothes being shut in a locker for who-knows how long. Still, it smelled like Q, like that place Bond started to think of as _home_ , and he was more eager to return to it than ever.

“I’m hungry,” Bond told him.

“Have some of the jam you brought me.”

Bond looked at the red bag on the corner of Q’s cluttered desk, sitting out in the open for all to see instead of tucked away like a shameful secret. It made Bond feel a little proud that Q would let everyone see it, especially knowing what the gossip was around the two of them nowadays.  
“Just jam isn’t food.”

“I think there are some biscuits in the break room.”

Bond sniffed.

“I want real food.”

“Go get something to eat, then. The canteen is probably still open. Or you can order takeaway.”

Bond knew he was being petulant, but the more Q ignored him, the more he wanted his attention. He tugged at the back of Q’s chair.

“Make me something.”

“I’m busy.”

Bond frowned and looked down at all the paperwork on Q’s desk that currently held his attention. He took his hand and, in one swift motion, pushed it all onto the floor. Q stopped typing and turned in his chair to glare at Bond.

“Did you really…?”

“Let’s go get dinner.”

“You come into my office, make a mess, and then want me to go to dinner with you?”

“Yes,” Bond said.

“No,” Q said, and went back to work.

“My treat,” Bond offered.

Q turned his chair back toward Bond again, his eyes narrowed in suspicion.

“What did you do?”

Bond held up his hands innocently.

“Nothing.”

“What do you want?”

“Dinner.”

Q observed him for a long moment.

“I’m not making you an exploding pen.”

Bond considered arguing the case for the exploding pen--as he always did when Q brought it up, that sort of running joke between them for over a year now--but his stomach gave a weak little growl, reminding him of his mission. Q must have heard it, too, because something in his expression softened, like the way it did when Bond would come to him, vulnerable and exhausted, after a mission.

“Dinner, that’s all,” Bond assured him.

Q still looked a little doubtful of Bond’s motives, but he asked:

“Where are we going?”

“Somewhere you won’t get thrown out for looking like you’ve dressed from a charity shop.”

“We can’t all afford Savile Row, Bond.”

The thought of putting Q in something tailored made something tighten in Bond’s belly. Something like arousal, but it went deeper than that. He just wanted to see Q in something nice that he bought for him, something that made others know that Bond took care of him. He pushed the thought aside when his stomach gave another weak protest.

Another day, another time, when he wasn’t starving.

“What about Indian food? The place with the good dosas round the corner.”

“Fine, but you have to pick that mess up first.”

Bond grumbled, leaning over to do as Q asked. He felt Q’s gaze on him, and couldn’t help himself:

“Are you looking at my arse, Q?”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Bond. I’m honestly trying to figure out if I’m hallucinating. You, actually doing something that you’re told?”

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer.”

“Tempting, so I could use it for blackmail in the future, but who would believe it wasn’t Photoshopped? It’s just too incredible…” Q mused, and then sighed. “I’ll just have to savour this moment so I can relive it in vivid detail at a later date.”

“Should I be concerned about what you use that mental image for?”

“Honestly, it’ll be the thing that gets me through the next arsechewing with Mallory. While he’s raging about what damage you’ve done, I can look back on this moment fondly as The One Time James Bond Did Something That I Asked Him.”

“Harsh.”

“True.”

“Is that the only time you’ll be thinking about me in, how did you say, _vivid detail_?” Bond asked.

Bond expected something else just as snarky, but Q gave him a wink, so very playful that Bond did not know how to respond. Here was Q, who was always so stoic with him, even when quipping jokes back and forth. But this was just.

_Cute._

Bond didn’t blush--training had crushed that automatic response long ago--but he must have made some sort of face, because Q laughed like he’d gone redder than a tomato.

“Don’t worry, Bond. Your virtue is safe with me.”

There were words on the tip of Bond’s tongue _what if I don’t want it to be?_ but he didn’t say them. How could he say them when they were whatever they were? More-than-friends-but-not-lovers and the question would be strange. Pack-but-not-mates would be even stranger. So Bond clenched his jaw to keep the question from emerging.

And instead, his stomach filled the silence with a loud growl.

Q laughed again.

“Okay, okay. We’re going,” he said, as he powered down his computer.

Bond hurriedly gathered the papers and then put them in a messy stack back on Q’s desk. He didn’t bother to straighten it into something neater, too concerned with getting the jam into Q’s satchel and then holding out Q’s coat to him in silent entreaty. It, too, was an ugly thing that Bond would rather have seen at the bottom of a skip, but before he could harp on it, Q had come to him and slipped into it, allowing Bond to help with the sleeves, to straighten the collar on it without complaint.

It was the first time in over a week that they had been so close, and Bond might have let his fingers linger longer than appropriate when he adjusted Q’s hood and then pulled the zip on the front.

“I’m fine,” Q said, but didn’t make to move Bond’s hands away.

Even in the low light, Bond could see that Q was blushing a bit at the care.

“You’ll catch a cold,” Bond told him.

Q’s flush turned redder.

“I’m fine,” Q insisted, and this time, he moved away. “Let’s go get dinner.”

**00Q00Q00Q**

It was almost a date.

When they arrived at the restaurant, Bond, ever the gentleman, held the door open. The server gave them a bright smile and then ushered them to corner table near the far window. Surrounding them were several other tables of couples out for the evening, laughing and sharing meals over candlelight. Even their table had a candle on it, adding to the romantic atmosphere. Bond tried not to think about how lovely the soft light made Q look, hues of amber and pink that gave him more colour than he could keep on a normal day under harsh fluorescents.

But it wasn’t a date, not even when they were so close together that Bond could feel Q’s knees against his under the table, not when their hands brushed as they munched on an appetizer of naan.

Whatever it was--date or no--it was nice. Nice just being somewhere with someone he liked, with someone who understood him, who _knew_ him. They could pass long moments of silence together without feeling awkward, just as they could fill it with conversation. Q even laughed at one of Bond’s jokes (or maybe he’d been serious, Bond couldn’t remember, too focused on the fact that he was really enjoying Q’s laugh this evening and wanted to hear it more often).

When the food came, they shared bites of each others’ meals, which Bond wasn’t comfortable doing with just anyone. But he couldn’t resist Q even if he wanted to, what with him eating like a man starved. Bond wondered when he’d last had something to eat.

“What?” Q asked, as he spooned a second helping of rice onto his plate.

“Just wondering where you put it all.”

“Brainpower, obviously.”

Bond nearly choked on his dosa. Q shook his head as he heaped another portion of tikka onto his plate.

“Although I don’t look it, I do exercise.”

“Running up a bill doesn’t count,” Bond told him.

“Ha, ha, you are hilarious,” Q said without laughing, but the corners of his mouth were tilted upward in a smile he couldn’t quite hide.

“I’ve never seen you in the gym at Six.”

“That’s because I don’t go to the gym at Six.”

“Run around the city, then?”

Q shrugged.

“Sometimes.”

Bond tapped on the edge of his water glass. Never let it be said that Q was not an agent. He could be evasive for days.

“Two legs or four?”

“What makes you think I’m quadrupedal?”

Bond looked at Q, who gave him an enigmatic smile.

“You’re trying to throw me off,” Bond said.

“Am I?”

Bond studied Q for a good minute in a half, but Q gave no tells at all.

“I’ll find out,” Bond said.

“Will you?”

Now it seemed like Q was laughing at him.

“It’s my new mission.”

“I’ll tell you what,” Q said, “you keep up with your good habits--bringing back my equipment, not causing damage to international monuments--”

“It was one time, Q.”

“It was more than one time, Bond. I wasn’t born yesterday.”

Bond opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, Q shoved an entire slice of naan in his mouth.

“No quips about my age, either,” Q said. “If you do all of these things, then I’ll tell you.”

It took Bond a moment to chew and swallow, so he used that time to think it over. Be good and find out Q’s secret...or be bad and use his excellent sleuthing skills to figure it out himself? Or be good to lure Q into a false sense of security while at the same time spying on him during his off hours?

Decisions, decisions.

“Fine.”

Q studied him for a moment.

“You have absolutely no intention of doing what I ask, do you?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Bloody nightmare.”

**00Q00Q00Q**

For the next two months, Bond did reconnaissance every moment he was in London. He treated it like a mission, doing his legwork like any good field agent. Not only did he do his homework virtually (all files on the MI6 servers and backup servers redacted, with only the words “Nice try, Bond. Better luck next time” remaining visible) but also by digging in every place he could think of (including the bins in the parking garage, which he was definitely not proud of) on top of stalking his target.

He discovered which trains Q rode and which shops he frequented (the shop just round the block from his flat being the most favourite, run by a man who started recognising Bond lurking about after Q and had confronted him with a threat to get lost or he’d call the police) and what he did on his off hours (mostly sleeping, but sometimes he’d go to a bookstore or restaurant in the neighbourhood). Bond also snooped in the house when he was welcomed (finding only one drawer locked in entire flat, which gave him a _literal_ shock when he tried to force it open) and Q’s office when he wasn’t welcome (two drawers this time, both of which were armed with a dye that took Medical-grade scrub to get the blue off his skin).

And after all that time, he had absolutely nothing to show for it.

Not a single thing, not even a hair or a scale or a tooth or a claw.

Nothing.

Nada.

Zip.

“At it again?” Q asked, when he caught Bond slinking around through his office (again, just in case Bond had missed a secret lever to a secret compartment filled with all of Q’s secrets?) one afternoon.

Bond stopped feeling around along Q’s bookshelves, properly caught and a little embarrassed by the fact. Q didn’t laugh, though his mouth had a smile to it that told Bond he wasn’t in any real trouble.

“Does it really matter?” Q asked, dropping an armful of folders onto his desk.

“What?”

“What I am?”

“No,” Bond said, and meant it.

It didn’t matter at all what Q was or wasn’t. What mattered to Bond was that he was so secretive about it. It was like he didn’t trust Bond. It hurt more than Bond wanted to admit. After all this time, he’d thought they were closer, still somewhere between _pack_ and _mate_ but all at once not either.

“Ah, I see,” Q said to Bond’s heavy silence.

“I didn’t say anything,” Bond said.

“You didn’t have to. I get it. Sort of unfair, isn’t it?”

“No,” Bond said, looking pointedly at the corner of Q’s desk instead of at him, chewing on the words in his mouth instead of saying them.

“You feel vulnerable.”

“You’re putting words in my mouth.”

“But you do,” Q said, “feel vulnerable. I know you but you don’t know me.”

Somehow, the words dug right under Bond’s skin in all the wrong ways, and he wanted nothing more than to be anywhere else.

“I shouldn’t have said anything,” Bond said, standing up swiftly to make for the door. He could nurse his own wounded pride without an audience.

“Bond,” Q said to his back, then, softer: “James.”

That made him turn.

Q was leaning against the edge of his desk, his hands folded in front of him, as if at ease, but Bond could see that his fingers were white as he clenched them. All of Q’s cool, collected nature had gone, leaving behind a raw nervousness that Bond had never seen before.

“I’m sorry,” Q said, and it was honest as Q always was, “I’m just a very private person.”

Now he was the one looking at the corner of his desk instead of at Bond. Bond, who knew that the moment was so very fragile, too fragile for him to break it with his own words. They had to come from Q, who seemed to be debating them in his own head before they tumbled out.

“I’m not very good at sharing this part of myself with other people. It’s... well... Let’s just say, I’ve had some unfortunate experiences that I’d rather not discuss...”

“You can trust me, Q,” Bond said.

“I do. Trust you,” Q said, his words certain, but awkward, as if he’d never had the opportunity to speak them aloud in that order before. And maybe he hadn’t, because Bond could see the shyness in Q’s body, the way he unconsciously crossed his arms over his chest to protect the most vulnerable part of him.

It felt intimate to see Q this way. Q, who was so confident, now shrinking away under his gaze. But then Q stood up a little straighter and met Bond’s eyes.

“I trust you,” he said, this time with more clarity, “but there are…there are some things I’m…maybe I’m not ready to talk about yet. It sounds bullshit, I know, but. Please, understand. This is hard for me...just like it was hard for you…”

He paused, adjusting his glasses, moving some hair out of his eyes, all kinds of nervousness radiating off him in waves Bond could actually feel.

“So if I ask you not to, Bond… please... will you promise to not pry?”

Q’s expression was something Bond had never seen before. He looked anxious, almost afraid, and Bond felt torn between wanting to comfort Q and wanting to harm whoever was responsible for causing him pain.

“I promise,” Bond said.

Something like relief softened Q’s expression.

“When you get back, then,” Q said.

“Back?” Bond asked.

Q looked apologetic, before reaching behind him to the stack of folders on his desk. He selected the two topmost ones before handing them to Bond.

“Direct from M. Wheels up in about five hours.”

Bond opened the folder.

Sydney, Australia.

Of course they would send him to one of the furthest corners of the globe the moment he had reason to stay in London.

“How long?” he asked.

“If the intel is good, you should be back before the end of the month.”

Bond nodded, closing the folder.

“R will get you kitted. I’ve got a meeting with R&D I’m not looking forward to.”

He looked tired. It struck Bond how much he wanted to go to him in that moment and put his arms round him, but he refrained. They never really touched when they were human, aside from the briefest touches when exchanging equipment or paperwork, or those rare times when Q let Bond help him into his coat, adjust his hat. He knew now it wouldn’t be appropriate, not when Q was still feeling raw from everything they’d just discussed.

So Bond nodded again, and went to the door. He paused at the threshold, unable to help himself before he left.

“Will you tell me one thing, before I go?” Bond asked.

Q stood a little straighter, giving Bond his full attention.

“About what?”

“About you?”

His Quartermaster flushed.

“What about me?”

“Anything about you. Where you grew up? Your favourite colour? That kind of thing.”

“I don’t know those things about you.”

“Liar,” Bond replied, and Q had the decency to look contrite.

The Quartermaster of MI6 knew everything about his agents, after all.

“When you get back,” Q told him again.

Bond knew it was a long shot, but he covered up his own hurt with his best grin.

“Such a tease.”

Bond was just turning the knob on the door when Q spoke up from behind him:

“Green.”

Bond turned, just slightly. Q was looking down at his tablet instead of at him. His ears were red.

“My favourite colour. It’s green.”

Bond felt the corners of his mouth turning up in a real smile.

“Noted.”

Q cleared his throat and looked uncomfortable, so Bond went for their usual brand of comfortable banter.

“I’ll bring you back a souvenir. Maybe some Vegemite?”

At the suggestion, Q lifted his head and wrinkled his nose in distaste. It was rather adorable. Much more adorable than the face Q had made when he discovered another one of his cardigans shredded and buried under the sofa.

“Please don’t.”

“Okay, I’ll bring you back something nice,” Bond promised.

“Your definition of _nice_  frightens me…” Q said, and turned back to his tablet.

“Now go. And try to come back in one piece.”

At first, Bond thought he’d misheard, but then the words sunk in _try to come back in one piece_. His chest felt simultaneously light and heavy.

“What about the equipment?” Bond asked.

“You heard me, didn’t you, Double-Oh Seven? Or do I need to schedule a hearing test for you in Medical before you leave?”

Q had turned away from him, still looking down at his tablet, the set of his shoulders telling Bond that he was very aware of what he just said and what it meant for all of those uncertain things between them.

“You could just say you’ll miss me.”

“I can’t miss you if you never leave. Get out of my office.”

That drew a chuckle from Bond as he tucked his mission folder under his arm and left Q’s office.

“I’ll miss you, too, Q,” he said.

And then he was gone.

There was work to do.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all of your kind words!

Bond knew something had gone wrong the moment he switched out of airplane mode at London-Heathrow.

There had been a situation sometime during the fifteen hours he’d been in the air. What it could be, Bond could only imagine, as the SMS he received revealed no information. It was a standard, encrypted message sent to all active agents. If an agent had been compromised or forced to abandon their mobile, anyone who tried to translate the code would get nothing but garbage. It didn’t say anything, anyway; just a string of characters and numbers that would frustrate code breakers across the world searching for a meaning. The meaning was not in the message, but the arrival of the message itself. All agents knew what it meant: contact your handler.

Something had gone very wrong.

Bond wanted to ring to Q-Branch immediately, but he knew the protocol. In a situation like this one, not knowing what had happened, it was best to go through all the appropriate channels, no matter how time consuming. Tapping his foot nervously as the plane taxied the runway, Bond pounded in the number for Six’s front company, Universal Exports. It was used in cases like this, when security had been breached somehow, to prevent wiretapping. Calling through the main line ensured that they cleaned the connection before putting agents through to their handlers.

“Thank you for calling Universal Exports,” said a sweet voice on the other end, “how may I direct your call?”

“Accounting,” he said.

“One moment please,” said the sweet voice, before transferring him.

Another sweet voice answered a moment later:

“Thank you for calling Universal Exports Accounting Services. May I have your account number please?”

Bond typed it into his mobile, knowing the protocol when in such a closed-in environment.

“Thank you for your account information. We will direct you to your account manager expediently.”

He was put on hold again.

“Thank you for calling Universal Exports. May I please have verification of your identity for security purposes?” asked the nameless voice on the other end.

Bond typed it in.

“Thank you, Mr. Sterling. And how have your travels been?”

“ _Obscenely_ tiresome,” Bond answered, emphasizing his chosen no-duress password.

(His under-duress password was _charming_.)

A click sounded on the other end of the line.

“Thank you for your verification, Mr. Sterling. This line is secure,” said the voice, “please hold.”

The pause lasted over a minute and a half, just enough time for the plane to pull up to the gate and the door to open. First class passengers, Bond included, were pushing out towards the exit doors when the line came to life.

“Bond?”

Bond’s heart sped up so fast that he felt it in his throat, beating as fast a hummingbird’s wings. It wasn’t Q on the other end.

And it was _always_ Q.

“Moneypenny?”

“Good, you’ve landed, then?” she asked.

“Five minutes ago,” Bond said, pushing past some slow walkers in front of him. “What’s happened?”

He was at the gate in the airport now, already dashing his way toward baggage claim as fast as he could without running.

Eve explained calmly, in a way that said she’d done this countless times today: hot-headed agents, not in the Double-Oh Programme--not by a longshot--but still MI6 agents on a mission in some faraway country had run into a bit more trouble than they had anticipated. They’d called Q-Division for technical support and an emergency evac. But things escalated quickly. The branch did what they could before finally turning it over to Q, who had been trapped in an administrative meeting and literally had a headset thrust at him the moment he walked in the door. He had about a thirty second brief as to the situation and then had his back pushed up against the metaphorical wall, with no choice but to make the tough decisions. It resulted in six agents dead: four at the initial site, the other two taken into terrorist custody, where they were publicly executed via streaming services such as YouTube.

“Intel is secure,” Eve told him, “and there were no civilian casualties, but we’re taking all the precautions just in case. We learned our lesson with Silva.”

Bond breathed through his nose, counting the exhale and subsequent inhale in an attempt to slow his rapidly beating heart. The mention of Silva set him on edge. However, it wasn’t the threat of his own exposure that made him anxious. Rather, it was the thought of that place he’d started considering _home_ , the person he’d…

Bond gripped at his carry-on bag, the wrapped gift inside crunching under the abuse.

“And Q?”

“He’s gone home,” Eve said, “M’s orders.”

The silence on her end sounded strained, even to Bond. He knew the reason for her pause. The incident with Silva--with M--had been almost two years ago, and since then, Q had never lost an agent. There had been dozens of close calls and major injuries, but Q somehow bent the forces of nature to get everyone back home.

But not this time.

“Shall I reschedule your debriefing with M?”

“Please,” Bond replied.

Another pause, this one different from the first, as if they were sharing a secret. And then, Eve’s voice, soft and pleading:

“Take care of him.”

Bond felt a lump in his throat, the enormity of the request nearly choking him. No one had ever asked him to take care of someone before, perhaps not believing he had the ability to do so, calloused from so many years of a job that asked him to kill without flinching. And then somehow, Q had come into his life, and he had started learning, bit by bit, even if it started with just tea and sandwiches. Now it was time to prove he was a different man, that he could be good, that he could be _pack_.

“I’ll try,” he answered, and rang off.

**00Q00Q00Q**

The ride to Q’s flat took ages in evening rush hour traffic.

By the time Bond reached the appropriate block, it was well past 1800. Autumn sleet fell heavily, drenching him as he made for the front door of the apartments. He took the lift up to Q’s floor and gently knocked on the door, shaking water from his hair and eyes as he waited.

And waited.

“Q,” he said to the door softly, not wanting to rouse the neighbours. “Open up.”

From the other side, he heard nothing.

Bond tried to reach out to his other senses, but his smell was hindered from all the damp and the recycled air from the flight. His hearing fell into a similar category. Bond never had been good at getting acclimated immediately to the changes in air pressure. Still, he knew that Q was inside. He could feel it: a gentle pull just under his ribs. They were not officially pack, but Q was the closest thing that Bond had to one. That had to be the reason why Bond could _feel him_ on the other side.

He knocked again.

“Q...please,” he tried.

Again, nothing.

Bond took pause, rested his forehead against the door. He could break in easily, but that was not the point. If Q wanted to be alone, he had to respect that, despite that insistent pulling sensation that told him with absolute certainty Q _needed_ him. The animal instinct told him to find a way inside, find his way to Q and comfort him, but Bond clamped down on it before he could act. Humans were different from animals; sometimes touch and contact were not the best medicine. Bond knew very well that Q might be one of those people. Even after everything they had experienced together, Q had rarely, if ever, voluntarily touched Bond in his human form...

From within the flat, Bond heard a muffled cry. It was no sound that human vocal chords could possibly make, but it was a cry all the same. It came again, a little louder, and it made the hairs on the back of Bond’s neck stand up. The animal in him knew this sound--considered it as a threat--but all Bond could hear was the _pain_ , and he made his decision.

Using the edge of a credit card from his wallet, Bond jimmied open the door. When Q’s alarm system did not sound, that worried him. Had Q been too preoccupied to secure himself safely in his flat when he’d come home?

Quietly, Bond pushed open the door, trying not to startle Q if he was on the other side. The door bumped into something and halted halfway open, so Bond nudged it a little more so he could squeeze inside.

Once in the foyer, Bond went for the light. He found himself standing on top of a pile of familiar clothes: a rain-damp parka, Q’s favourite cardigan, and a pair of navy trousers. Nearby lay a neglected laptop case, a black sports watch, a ring of keys, and Q’s glasses. Bond leaned down to pick up the spectacles, which he placed safely on the table nearest the door. Q must have just barely made it home before giving into his Other form, the desperate Shift inevitable after what he had gone through that day.

“Q?” Bond called, toeing off his shoes as he hung up his jacket on the rack in the entry hall. He did the same with Q’s parka and then collected the rest of his clothes as he stepped into the flat.

He stopped halfway into the living room when he felt a gaze on him, but when Bond turned his head, there was nothing there.

He did hear the skittering of something sharp on the hardwood floor, then the clatter of various items falling onto the floor in the kitchen.

Dropping the clothes onto the sofa, Bond followed the source of the sound.

In the kitchen, there were potatoes on the floor, tipped out of the bin that Q had bought when they had begun having meals together--real meals made out of meat and potatoes and vegetables instead of sad microwave dishes and instant noodles--insisting that now that there were two of them to feed, it was the least he could do to keep the pantry stocked. Said pantry was in disarray; cans and boxes were strewn about on the floor amongst the potatoes, containers of rice and beans thankfully unspilled due to their locked lids. One of the shelves down, broken in the blind panic that had sent Q careening for the safety of the dark closet.

Due to the damage, there was nowhere to hide, and so, in the middle of the kitchen was Q, who had attempted to wedge himself inside the potato bin as a form of protection.

If it had been any other situation, Bond would have thought him beautiful, but seeing Q like this: huddled in a ball, dark ears pinned back, his bottle tail curling around himself for protection...Bond couldn’t feel anything but that tug under his ribs that wanted to care for him.

The red fox, on the other hand, had different feelings.

He would not let Bond approach him, whining, growling, hunkering further into the potato bin when he made any sort of motion.

So Bond slowly moved to sit, resting his back against the wall opposite from the kitchen. The thing in his chest kept urging him to go to Q, but Bond held back. Q would come to him or he would not, that was his choice.

Little by little, Q seemed to come round. He uncurled himself from his defensive position, hair no longer standing on end, and eventually began inching closer. By the time he was close enough to touch, both of Bond’s legs and the majority of his backside were numb from sitting on the floor for so long. But Q came to him, ears drooping, green eyes so expressively _sad_ that Bond forgot his own discomfort.

He leaned forward and put his arms around Q, who bowed his head and pressed it against Bond’s clavicle. Q allowed Bond to hold onto him, permitted him to smooth his palms down along his soft fur. Parallel to his spine ran a jagged scar from shoulder to hip. It was old and white, the hair unable to grow properly along the groove, and so Bond kept his hands far from it.

He remembered that day in the office, when Q had said he was _a very private person_ and that there were things he wasn’t ready to talk about. It made Bond wonder about the scar, about the indent he could see in Q’s hip--deep, white, puckered, similar to the scar on Bond’s own shoulder--about the missing chunk of fur from Q’s otherwise luxurious red tail.

But that would all be for another time.

“It’s not your fault, Q,” Bond said, moving his fingers lightly over the thick hair at his ruff. Q made a horrible sound that Bond could not name; something between a bark and a whine. Then he made it again, and again, and it was like crying, but worse. Bond held onto him tighter, rubbing behind Q’s ears as he continued making those heartbreaking noises.

“Shh, it’s alright…I’m here...I’ll take care of you.”

After some time, Q’s cries tapered off, his trembling body going soft with exhaustion. His legs curled up under him, and then he was nothing but shivering muscle and bone on top of Bond’s lap.

“I’m sorry you were here all alone,” Bond said, brushing his hand over Q’s ears.

Q tucked his head under Bond’s palm, again and again, until his eyes closed, and he seemed too tired to do anything else.

Bond sat there for a while longer, until it seemed that Q had dropped off to sleep, before he gathered him up in his arms--all one and a half stone of him--and brought him to the bedroom. Q hung limply in his arms, not even making a sound as Bond deposited him onto the bed and curled the topmost blanket round him into a makeshift nest.

Then he sat on the edge of the mattress and wondered what to do.

He wasn’t very good at comforting anyone. He never really had to. Maybe growing up there had been a friend or two, wounded over a conquest or a death, who had needed a firm hand on the shoulder and a cold pint to make them forget. And he’d been trained to offer comfort, of sorts, when on missions: women in their moments of weakness who he had connected with sexually to ease their pain, to lower their guard.

Still, there were a few genuine moments of comfort he had offered in his lifetime. They’d been awkward and stilted from a lifetime of not knowing how to give reprieve to someone grieving, but they’d been honest.

But nothing in his arsenal prepared him for this.

He knew Q so well now, knew how many hours he could sit and sift through data for the purpose of finding that single needle in a haystack to make or break a mission. Bond could see him in his mind’s eye, that intense focus, his calibrated grace, his stoicism, his softness, everything. It was a personal failure to Q to lose these agents. He felt responsible and.

Helpless.

Bond let out a sigh from all the way down to his bones. He laid down on the bed next to Q in the dark, tired in a way he hadn’t felt in so long. Hadn’t allowed himself to feel in so long without the haze of alcohol.

He reached out for Q in the dark, slid his fingers into the red fur of his chest. Q’s breaths were even. Bond wondered if he was asleep.

He hoped he was.

“I know how you feel,” Bond told him.

There had been Venice: Vesper with her dark hair and red dress plunging into the murky water. The sad look she’d given him as he tried to free her, the way she’d moved away from his desperate hands trying to save her. That scream she emitted, the resulting inhalation of water into her lungs. In the end, how she had been motionless in his arms, skin cold, breath gone.

Then there had been that dingy hotel in Istanbul: Ronson’s heavy breathing in the shadow recesses of that sweltering room. The way he’d pressed hard into Ronson’s wound, felt the heat of his blood against his palm. M had been in his ear, telling him to go, while Ronson’s eyes begged him to stay. And in the end, he had died alone.

And then that ruined church at Skyfall: M, always so fierce and strong, suddenly so small and weak in his arms. Bond, shivering from the cold, the only warmth where her blood flowed out of her. At least he’d been with her in that last moment, been the one to gently close her eyes. He hadn’t had the chance with the others.

And there had been others--countless others--who he had trusted or had trusted him, whose names and faces had blurred together with time and drink and a willfulness to forget. But if one thing remained, it was the very real fact that they had all met their ends because of him.

It was Bond’s fault.

“Everybody dies,” Bond said to the dark, “but until then, everyone who’s left is someone you’re thinking about losing.”

Bond sighed and closed his eyes. Q’s breaths were still even, his coat soft and warm.

_I’m afraid that one day, it’ll be you._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies that this is so short, but I ended up splitting the second chapter into two. Next part to be posted in about a week, so stay tuned!

**Author's Note:**

> I know, I'm bad. I promise that you'll all find out what Q is in the next chapter ;) To be posted soon! xx D


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